


Shooting Stars and Starflowers

by Dedicate Kiwicrocus (cranky__crocus)



Series: SMACKDOWN '11 Round Two - Team Discipline [18]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/F, Goldenlake, smackdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Dedicate%20Kiwicrocus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosethorn had a feeling, somehow, they were both wishing that evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shooting Stars and Starflowers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SMACKDOWN at Goldenlake: fiefgoldenlake.proboards.com

When Lark had travelled and spent many nights under the stars—under cover or not, always close to starlight—her aunt had taught her to watch for the stars that moved. They would blaze across the sky in less than a second, leaving the path of their brightness burned into her sight for a blessedly short amount of time. Her aunt had told her to make a wish about whatever first came to mind upon seeing them, and to not tell anyone else; she was supposed to keep it tight against her heart.

            Lark thought of that as she stretched over the roof of Discipline, watching the midnight stars. She had succeeded in finishing a long and intricate weaving project that day. Her pride did not necessarily soothe her aching muscles, for as usual, she had pushed herself too hard near the end.

            Her eyes darted to the north, where the movement of a star snatched her quick reflexes; she watched it plummet earthward until she lost it to the horizon.

            _I wonder if Rosethorn saw that,_ she thought with a smile; it was likely the woman was in her workshop near the north-facing window as she often was.

            _‘Make a wish, tumbler-tot, and tell only your heart,’_ Lark heard her aunt from the distant land of memories. Rosethorn had been her first thought. Lark considered this for a moment.

            At last she closed her eyes and fixed the image of the star in her mind, wishing, _please let her see me as I see her_.

 

 

Rosethorn held a moon daisy in her hand; one of her plants had dropped the flower-head and it was in her possession now. She recalled all the girls her age in the village plucking flowers from the fields and counting off petals: he loves me, he loves me _not_ , he loves me, he loves me _not_. They would tease each other regardless of the answer they got. Rosethorn never partook; she thought it amounted to either wishful thinking or daft delusions, neither of which interested her.

            The daisy’s big yellow eye stared up at her, unblinking. She realised now that perhaps she would have plucked a daisy or two—if the plant didn’t mind—had she had her eye on anyone. The village boys the other girls fancied were usually mean hair-pullers, cowards who hid behind bullies or shy boys that grouped together and seldom spoke when the girls were around. None of them interested Rosethorn, for she always found the plants, insects and birds to be nicer and—on the whole—far more understandable.

            But now a face came to mind over the daisy’s oxen eye, a face with cat-like features and a hue more golden than yellow.

            Rosethorn sighed. If she was going to be ridiculous by even thinking of the ritual, she may as well perform it once, for memory’s sake.

            She plucked away its petals.

            “She loves me, she loves me not; she loves me, she loves me not; she loves me—oh, scabweed—she loves me not; she loves me, she loves me not.”

            Rosethorn wrinkled her nose, at the result and at her performance of the old childish ritual itself. And then she laughed, for she remembered the way her friends had side-stepped the decree of the flowers once they themselves had flowered: “She loves me, she loves me _lots_.”

            A grin slipped over her lips. There—settled, then. Clearly the mad spirit of field daisies was in accordance with her interest in Lark. Rosethorn heard the bell chime another quarter-hour. She must be finished for the evening, if she was resorting to the whims of counting a silly flower’s petals in the name of courtship. She plucked up the jonquils from her workspace and hurried toward the stairs, imagining just where her house partner might be.

            Indeed, Lark was on the roof star-gazing; she gestured for Rosethorn to join her.

            “I saw a shooting star,” Lark remarked, eyes turning from the stars to Rosethorn’s face. “I made a wish, like a little girl would.”

            Rosethorn laughed to hear it, though she would not admit that she had done the same in her own way. “Luck to you, then.” She pulled the flowers from behind her back and gave them to the woman, who admired the star-like shape of them and smiled. “To congratulate you for finishing that cloth today.”

            “Thank you, Rosethorn.” Lark brought them to her nose and sniffed, eyes closing as her smile widened. “They’re beautiful.”

            _So are you_ , Rosethorn thought as she leaned back. _And they’re a wish of my own: return my affections? Flowers speak better than I, if you listen._

            A shooting star soared above them. Lark gasped.

            Rosethorn had a feeling, somehow, they were both wishing that evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. (:


End file.
